


heavy shoulders, oh how they hang

by wisteria (orphan_account)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The days that she came the closest to feeling forgiven were always the ones she wouldn’t expect to; they were the days that she’d teach Steve how to play a certain card game, or where Tony would want her to test some technology, or when she and Bruce would share stories over tea, or the days where Thor would want to go shopping, or the days when she and Clint would reminisce, when she and Clint would talk, when she and Clint, she and Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heavy shoulders, oh how they hang

**Author's Note:**

> A quick drabble, nothing more, nothing less; I felt like writing Natasha as a bit more withered, for we all feel so sometimes, right?

There was a fountain in front of her, and it was dribbling like the rain after a hurricane; she, being coinless, plucked an eyelash and ushered it in with a gust from her puckered lips.

Natasha was not one to believe in such things, for they were childish ideals—just like if you wish upon a shooting star. But Natasha knew none of them worked, she had tried all of them.

It was like how she did not believe in forgiveness or a god that could grant it, because she had wished and screamed for it so many times that she knew he had to have heard, but the thoughts never left her head. When they had begun to seep from her, when they outstretched her eyelashes and reddened her lips, she was through. That was when she decided she would try to reclaim the blood she had let ooze from innocents by saving innocents.

There was a notebook she kept stowed away; it had every name of a guiltless soul she had killed or helped kill that she could remember, that she could find. And every time she saved someone, she would cross off their name, and write below it who she had saved.

There will still days that accidents happened, and she had to put a new name in the book, but it was never long before she could cross them off.

Natasha worked hard to obtain her exterior {and her interior}, whether you speak of emotions or looks, whether you speak of speech or thoughts. Yet there were always times when they lapsed, when she’d fall back, and let herself pray again, let herself beg again—always for one day, one day where she would not feel like Atlas, where she would not feel like there were people’s feet at her shoulders and corpses at her feet.

The days that she came the closest to feeling forgiven were always the ones she wouldn’t expect to; they were the days that she’d teach Steve how to play a certain card game, or where Tony would want her to test some technology, or when she and Bruce would share stories over tea, or the days where Thor would want to go shopping, or the days when she and Clint would reminisce, when she and Clint would talk, when she and Clint, she and Clint.

The days that were closest to normalcy were her favorites, because they stitched something in her chest; they tightened her screws a bit. It wasn’t that she didn’t love danger, or fighting—she very much did, but the grass is always greener on the other side.

She dipped a finger in the water of the fountain to test; it was chilly, but not freezing, and she nearly wanted to stick her head in, just to see if her hair would spider out in the water. Instead, she rolled up her jeans and tugged off her sneakers, and let her feet slip in.

Something in her sparked, because there was a feeling she experienced in her dreams and nightmares alike that was very similar to this, and she was quick to tug her feet out.

But then she felt lost, and as rare as a feeling that was for her, she was comfortable with it; though not so much, as she tipped her toes back in the water.

“Geez, Nat, are you trying to go for a swim?”

And then she was brought straight from her dreamland to reality, and she smiled faintly. His eyes searched her, but she didn’t reply, and he didn’t press. She slowly slipped her shoes back on and pulled down her jeans.

“Alright, you ready to go? I got everything you wanted from the bakery, so we’re all set,” He grinned at her, holding up a bag as proof. “Plus the car’s loaded with everything else we wanted, so.”

She smiled again, because she was not quite ready for words. Clint opened the door for her to get in the car, still wearing a shit-eating grin, and she returned one.

“I’d still feel better if you’d say where we’re going.” She let the words hang in the air as Clint started the car.

He laughed lightly, and it was so different from how he laughed around everyone else; it was soft, and it made her melt {but she’d be damned if she ever let Clint know}. “You’ll like it, trust me.” There was something in his tone that made her refuse to press forwards, to try to make him tell—he sounded serious, a bit melancholic.

It did not take them long to reach where Clint was taking her, and when she stepped out of the car, she let a small, small gasp escape. She heard Clint giggle from the trunk where he was retrieving the picnic supplies, and she vowed to get him back later.

“Clint,” she began, because she didn’t know quite what to say, “You didn’t have to do this, really. I thought this was going to be a simple thing…”

“Well, Fury said he wanted us to go undercover as a couple. Couples do this kind of stuff, don’t they? Take their pretty significants to areas that are less pretty by comparison.” He was right by her side now.

But her eyes were transfixed on the meadow, of the thousands of flowers that danced in front of her. They were all white with sweet, honey-yellow middles; they had long green stems that blended with the long grass that was as thin as hair. She could feel her shoulders get lighter, and when she took a few steps, it didn’t feel like she was crunching bones, but crunching memories because she had to make room for new ones.

“I found a clearing right over here that we can set up the picnic on.” He locked eyes with her and smiled again, but he only let it ghost his lips; it crinkled his eyes, though, and she giggled a bit. “Is everything alright, Nat? You haven’t tried to hit me today or anything, I’m surprised.”

“It’s just been one of those, you know?” She grabbed the basket and slipped over to the clearing.

Clint caught up to her quickly. “I know, Nat.” He looked down at his hands, which resided in his lap, and then back at her, with his smile renewed. “…So, tell me, do you think I’d look good with bleach-blond hair?”

“Clint.”

“It’s a serious question, Tasha.”


End file.
